


Seduction

by sepia_sigyn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1920s New York, 2012!Loki escapes and tries to hide in another era, Assassin - Freeform, Badass!Reader, Content warning for a slightly sadistic!reader, Decided to let a little bit of grit come out to play, F/M, If you catch my meaning, It gets worse the closer you get to him, One Shot, Post-Avengers, You find him, sparing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 23:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20608793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepia_sigyn/pseuds/sepia_sigyn
Summary: You are a highly regarded time-traveling assassin, known for your unwavering dedication to completing your missions.Your target is the alien god-man who tried to destroy New York City in 2012.You find him.You corner him.May he beg for your mercy.





	Seduction

_New York City, 1923_

You slip inside the speakeasy where he’s supposedly running a boozy poker game in the back in secret. Donning a slinky black fringe dress, towering heels, floor length mink, and a number of artfully hidden weapons, you put on the cheery, unsuspicious face of a young heiress.

“Hey, Daddy,” you whisper into the ear of the bouncer. “Hear it’s icy cool out back.” He nods and waves you in. 

You slink into the bar and are helped out of your coat, revealing your bare shoulders and drawing furtive glances from about three quarters of the shady characters in the joint. When the eyes have returned to their vices and vittles, you slip an inconspicuously looking monocle out of your pocket.

You scan the room.

There it is. Like the eye of a hurricane, a frighteningly low reading for a body temperature sucks in your vision behind the far wall in the back. A bookcase serves as the sole entrance and exit.

You’ve got him cornered. 

You take your time sauntering over to the bookcase, meeting the eyes of the bassist in the swing band and winking at the bartender as you amble towards the back of the bar.

Off to powder your nose, your shoulders and your hips say.

Down the long corridor.

Then you arrive. 

Knock three times with the backs of your knuckles.

And the door spins.

Every time, you picture him beforehand. A looming tower of a man. A lord, a commander, capable of unmaking dozens of hearts with a single scream:

“KNEEL!”

But the man before you, as you lift your eyes.

This man is much smaller than you expect.

Every time. 

He’s softer too. Long, dark hair, high cheekbones. A scholarly disposition. He certainly looks the part of noble birth, like someone you may have fantasized about in your school days as you read those old English novels for class and daydreamed about a handsome rakish gentleman briskly, passionately taking your maidenhood.

You shake your head and stroke the pistol hidden in your garter. You’ve also got several varieties of tranquilizers in your elaborate hairdo in case he doesn’t come quietly.

Oh but he’ll come quietly.

This time.

You flash a tiny smile in his direction as you enter and wander over to the table. He barely lifts his gaze at you, continues to stare at his hand.

You take a seat at the table directly across from him and accept the cigar you’re offered. Crossing your legs, you finally speak: 

“Cold enough in here for you fellas?”

And it is. It’s an icebox. That’s how he got his nickname in this new life of his, Eskimo Evans.

You knew the truth, of course. You’d read his file so many times that you could practically recite it by heart. 

He was some kind of a frost giant, an alien creature among alien creatures.

He was raised away from his culture and tried to murder his own kind before he came to Earth.

You despised him for this. How could one hate their own so much they’re willing to commit genocide against their own people?

You’d seen too much in your own life to hold a modicum of respect for any such person.

_Pathetic, twisted, sick son of a bitch._

It only spurs you further to complete your mission.

You push down your hatred for now.

You are ready.

They hit you in the next game. You take the cards you’re dealt, play along. Keeping a watchful eye on this invader, this _beast_.

Your blood is practically boiling. You imagine taking him down in every way you know how: knives, guns, needles, poisons. Slowly. Intimately. Violently.

It had to kick off somehow. 

And you had a plan. You’d buy a round laced with arsenic, take the other players out swiftly, then it’d just be you and him.

The round arrives and your associate winks. The band plays louder and louder.

The trap is set. 

Minutes later the other players are coughing and sinking to the floor. His eyes shift around then up to you. You cough too, sinking with the others until they are still.

Then you spring up and lunge, dagger drawn. 

You’d thought this through very carefully. He preferred close range weapons himself, you’d read, so you’d spar with him that way until you could wear him down and then catch him off guard. That’s when you’d do away with him.

Oh, he is swift. But you’re experienced. You parry every one of his blows and move much, much faster than he clearly expects.

“Has my so-called father sent you for me?” he spits, playing the role of the naïve victim.

You smirk and chuckle, a deep, throaty laugh. “Your people have abandoned you. You are worthless to them after what you’ve done. So here I am, sweet prince. I am your reckoning.”

“A Midgardian come to dispose of me? Why this is most unexpected. Were you sent by my brother and his allies then?” His watery eyes appear almost distraught but you ignore the emotion. 

You toss your right leg onto his shoulder, causing him to close his eyes, inhale, and lose his balance. Then you twist and slam him into the floor.

“Guess again,” you purr. He springs up.

“Nick Fury?” You jump out of your heels and kick him squarely in the larynx with the ball of your foot.

“Close, but no,” you grab up the burning cigar you’d been smoking and take a puff as he stands. You grab his forearm and slam it in. He yelps. 

“Cigar,” you say as coyly and sweetly as you can manage.

You then take out a spear, extend it so it’s longer than yourself, and swing it at your target.

“The Wakandans?”

“You might say I did a semester abroad there,” you flip across the table just as he rolls on top of it. You slam your spear down and shatter the table beneath him and he drops to the floor, covered in tiny shards of glass. You stand over him, driven, ignoring the scores of tiny cuts drawing blood from your tender feet. “Among other places.”

This perpetrator, this alien creature is now looking at you with an almost hungry expression, pupils blown, his chest rising and falling at a quickening pace. Is he…turned on by your near-killing him? It wouldn’t be the first time…

“My lady, your combat skills are most impressive. But perhaps we can talk this over,” he inches closer and again you see it. Handsome rakish gentleman. You’re fourteen again.

He grabs your wrist and kisses it, then kneels down at your feet.

“Perhaps we can settle this another way.” You’re in shock as he slides his pale hands up your thigh.

“You _will_ give yourself to me,” he whispers, pulling on your stocking, his lips sweeping across the silk.

“Are you my rock, my savior? You’re nothing of the sort. And I will not,” you twist and sink, straddling him, pinning him to the floor.

He grins and flushes and you feel his hardness between your legs. No matter. You ignore it and drawn your pistol, holding it to his throat.

“Say your prayers, alien boy,” you whisper hoarsely.

He chants. 

He _actually _chants.

And takes out his bright blue box. 

And disappears. 

_Fuck_. 

Back to square one.

You’ll get him soon.

You will. 

The next decade, seven centuries before. 

Whenever.

You will follow him. 

You will capture him.

You will make _him _kneel. 

His days are numbered.


End file.
